Hello Little Bird
by IShipIt32
Summary: Sansa was told that they would stop at Winterfell on their way to fight against the Night King, what she didn't expect was to find The Hound amongst those going to fight beyond the Wall. A long due reunion takes place during a cold night in Winterfell.
1. Hello Little Bird

**A/N:** Hello, this is a revised version of the piece I first posted. I was kindly notified by a reader that there were still things to improve so here is the second try to get things right. Thank you to everyone who has read, followed and reviewed. Happy reading! x.

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The message was short and to the point, just like Jon.

" _We will be riding through Winterfell on our way to the Wall, stopping for the night. Please have food and water ready for our arrival and our ride north. – Jon."_

Sansa read the message and busied herself with the preparations at once, she didn't know how many people to expect, she didn't know if the Dragon Queen, to whom Jon had pledged his alliance without consulting with her first, would be riding with them but she didn't care about that, she cared that there was a war coming and she needed to do her part in helping prepare the army. She thought of little Lyanna Mormont and how she had been right, they just couldn't sit knitting by the fire while the men fought, she had done enough of that already, and while she wouldn't be one swinging a sword, she could still help win this war. Sansa talked to the master at arms and smiths, to the kitchens and to the maester, they would need to arm and feed Jon's men; last she heard the Night's Watch still didn't have a maester and while she couldn't do without one in Winterfell, she could have her maester show at least the basics to whomever Jon and his new army had appointed with this task.

Time had passed quickly since she received Jon's raven and Sansa had used every waking moment to ensure that everything would be ready. She had worked past daylight, working by candlelight on the taxes collected, the amount of harvest they had and how long it could last, counting how many people they would have to shelter and so on. Winter was shaping up to be a tough one, caring for everyone would be a hard task but the Starks had always managed to protect the people of the north, they had seen winters come and go and they had stood firm. But she had never seen a winter before and she wished for someone to guide her in the duties she had taken as Lady of Winterfell.

"You look awful" – Arya said to her as they broke their fast, a fortnight after the raven had arrived.

"I've been busy… You know I've never been too good with numbers, my head was always in the clouds" – Sansa told her sister.

Years ago she had been called a good student but what her septa usually asked from her was a neat handwriting and being skillful with the needle. Grain count, correct storage of food and wood, making sure no one died from hunger or cold? Those were things her brothers would need to oversee. She would have a husband to worry about that, she only needed to look pretty and smile, or at least that was what everyone thought, that was what she thought too, but that was before and this was after.

"You're doing a great job" – Arya said very softly, it was almost a whisper.

"You're doing a great job too. Father would be proud." – Sansa offered, and she meant it, Arya had taken over the task of training the women and girls who wanted to fight, and while it wasn't a mandatory thing for anyone in the north, most women did want to fight.

"They are almost here: Jon, Ser Davos, Brienne and the others." – Bran interrupted – "I'll give word".

Sansa looked at Bran go, well, she saw him wheel himself away and felt sad for him. He had always been such a lively boy, climbing every wall on the castle, running around after Robb or Jon and asking them to teach him how to swing a sword, how to shoot an arrow… he had never been particularly good at it but he loved being active and he had a lovely smile, Sansa thought with sorrow that it must have been at least six years since she last saw him smile. When they first reunited she had thrown herself at him and held him tight only to have him wrap his arms loosely around her, she thought that maybe he was weak from the travels, from whatever he had been up to north of the Wall while she thought him dead, but after their conversation in the Godswood she realized that her brother was really gone and that instead, she would have to settle for the Three Eyed Raven. Sure, the Three Eyed Raven had proven himself quite useful, he had seen the Night King marching, he had seen Gendry running to the Wall to had sent word to Daenerys Targaryen about what was happening, but he had also seen everything that had happened to her. He knew about the beatings Joffrey had given her, the pain of seeing her father beheaded, the way Lysa Arryn had treated her, what Ramsay Bolton had done to her… how she longed to have a way for her little brother to forget what the Boltons had done to her. For the first few days all she could see in Bran's eyes was pain and she felt somehow ashamed, until one afternoon he visited her and took her hand, he told her that he wouldn't try to understand her pain and that even if he couldn't forget it, he chose not to think about it. He told her she was brave and he was proud of her, afterward, he had shut down on himself again, but now when they exchanged looks there wasn't pain, there was only the weight of the world on his frail brother's shoulders.

Beside her, Arya talked – "I miss the old Bran"

Sansa turned to look at her sister. She was sure that Arya had been through a lot, they hadn't exactly talked about it but she could tell, learning to do what she knew surely didn't come without a price. How much the three of them had changed, how much life had challenged them, pushed and kicked while they were down, but after everything they were still standing and still together, and that was how they would remain because the lone wolf dies but the pack survives, she used to think those were just silly words his father used to say… until they had been proven to be true.

"I miss him too." – Sansa said and continued eating, they had a long day ahead, they would need their strength.

The sound of men marching through the gates broke her concentration. She tried to get back to the numbers she had been working on, but the voices of men in the yard, the sound of iron clashing, the laughter, and her need to see her brother once more stopped her from going back to work. As Sansa walked around Winterfell, many men she had never seen before greeted her. She saw Brienne and Podrick and smiled at them) She saw Ser Davos and she squeezed his hand gently. She liked Ser Davos; he seemed like an honorable man. She found Jon at the armory. She waited for him to finish his instructions before clearing her throat, announcing her presence."

"Sansa" – he said quietly and turned around to hug her – "I have so many things I need to tell you."

"As do I, Jon. I'm sure Arya and Bran are waiting for us."

Arya jumped into Jon's arms the moment she saw him entering the main hall and for a minute Sansa felt as if they were kids again. A smile brightened Arya's face in a way she hadn't seen in years and Jon smiled as well, hugging Arya tight against him, they didn't let go of each other for a good while as if they could catch each other up with their lives by only hugging. After a while, they let go of each other, smiles still big on their faces, Sansa was about to leave when Jon reached for her hand and smiled at her too, it was okay, she guessed, they were all family after all.

"Brienne tells me that you've gotten quite good with the sword." – Jon said.

"You'll have to see for yourself" – Arya replied, mischief evident in her eyes. – "Now please tell us how is it that the North ended up pledging their alliance to Daenerys Targaryen?"

Jon explaining how everything had happened: the drawings on the Dragonstone mine, their journey beyond the Wall to find a wight, how Sandor Clegane had almost gotten them all killed, how Daenerys appeared with her dragons and saved them and, sadly, how one of her dragons had been killed by the Night King. Jon considered omitting the part of almost dying and being saved by Uncle Benjen but he knew that Bran would tell them anyway so he included that bit too. He told them about the meeting in King's Landing, how he had blown it and Tyrion Lannister had to save the day, how they were all gathering their armies to fight the dead. Sansa and Arya remained quiet while he spoke; their faces without a trace of emotion, and silence fell over the room as the story came to a conclusion.

"I was there when you were named King in the North" – Sansa started, Arya looked at her a little worried – "I proclaimed you my king… and that won't change. A little notice would have been nice though."

"Jon, did you just say the Hound almost got you killed?" – Arya asked completely out of the blue and breaking any upcoming tension – "Is he here? Is he in Winterfell?" – her voice sounded almost eager.

Sansa didn't know if it was a good thing or a bad thing to have Arya so interested in the Hound, was Sandor Clegane on her list? And if he were, would she be able to make Arya change her mind? The Hound had never been anything but nice to her; she owed him quite a lot now that she came to think of it. It was him who had stopped her from pushing Joffrey off the bridge the day that she was forced her to look at her father's head on a spike, he had never laid a hand on her even when it was a command from his king. On the contrary, he had been the first to come to her aid many times, like when one of the Kingsguard had ripped her dress; he had covered her with his white cloak or, most importantly, when the mob had turned on the court and she had almost been raped… he had killed three men without a doubt and carried her to safety. Arya wouldn't want to kill The Hound… would she?

"He's here. Would that be a problem?" – Jon asked.

"No." – Arya said with a smile and disappeared.

"She's changed" – Jon said, his voice a mix of concern, pride and nostalgia.

"Haven't we all?" – Sansa replied.

Sansa went back to work before long, she really needed to get those numbers right if she was planning on her people surviving the long night and be able to send provisions to the Wall whenever possible. It was at times like this that she almost missed Lord Baelish, he had been a calculating traitor but he was just as good at planning as he had been at deceiving. Thinking about Lord Baelish made her think about his desperate confession: "I love you", who had time for love anyway? She was nineteen years old, had been engaged thrice, married twice and the only man she had known had been an abusive bastard, literally. The closest thing to love she had found had been in the way that Tyrion Lannister protected her, first when she was Joffrey's betrothed and then as her husband. Tyrion Lannister had never forced himself on her, he had never asked her to do anything that would smudge her honor, he had been loving and caring but she had been stupid and had paid his favor with rejection. She had never been in love with the Imp but he had been more of a man than any other males she had met.

Sansa's thoughts went back to Petyr Baelish, she truly believed that in his own twisted way he had loved her, maybe not deeply and maybe not in the way a man is expected to love a woman, he had, after all, sold her to the Boltons but she had seen the pain in his eyes, the shame, when she confronted him on what an animal Ramsay Bolton had been. She had also seen the plea in his eyes as he declared his love for her just before Arya took a dagger to his throat. Should she have saved him? Maybe, but there was no point in regrets, Littlefinger was gone and that was it. Exhausted, Sansa let a sigh out, it was dark already; winter had arrived, each day the light lasted less and less, soon they would need to devise some way to keep track of time, otherwise they would get so little done. Her belly growled at her in a very un-lady like manner but she pressed on working, too much brooding over the past had occupied her time and she was again behind on her calculations.

The castle was awfully silent, that's how she realized how late it really was. No noise came from the yard or the halls or the armory, everything was silent… Sansa hated it. She hated when the sun went down and the candlelight wasn't strong enough to let her keep working because then she was alone with her thoughts and her memories. At nights she had to fight her own demons, she had to come to terms with every memory she had from the last six years, she had to walk the halls which had been her home and her prison, she had to fight off the nightmares of her dead father and Robb's head and Ramsay's sick blue eyes. The truth was that she overloaded herself with work because unlike Arya she didn't have the skills to swing a sword to take her rage out, she didn't have the skills to kill a man, and unlike Bran, she couldn't just choose to not think about it. On particularly cold nights everything reminded her of her tainted past and made her long for her family before Robert Baratheon damned them by riding north.

Hungry, lost and tired, Sansa walked the halls of Winterfell wrapped in a thick cape and silent as a shadow. She went to the kitchens and gathered some cheese and bread, she then roamed around the training field, she noticed her feet were taking her to the Godswood, would she pray? No, she wouldn't, but she would sit and see the frozen lake, lean on the trees, take a moment to breathe.

As she got closer, Sansa saw what looked like a fire and she could hear something that sounded like a man grunting in pain. She should have walked the other way, she should have sent a guard to check what was going on, she wasn't armed and even if she were, she wouldn't know what to do but somehow she couldn't stop walking. She was scared but at least this was one fear she could face, or so she told herself. As she got closer she saw the outline of a large man, he wasn't wearing an armor and he was bent over at a weird angle; the fire was low, and his back was to her, only when a branch snapped under her feet did the man show himself.

"Who goes there!?" – Sandor Clegane demanded, his voice full of anger, ready for a fight.

Sansa stepped forward timidly, her head slightly down, she hugged her cloak tighter against herself as she walked forward. She remembered the last time they saw each other, the night of the battle of Blackwater. He had told her to come with him and she had frozen, things would have been different if she left then, would life have been any easier? Mayhap, but there was no way to know and even if there were then she would prefer not to know.

"Little Bird" – his voice was so low she wasn't completely sure he had spoken.

Sansa looked up and found Sandor's eyes. What was that she saw in them? Surprise, there was definitely some surprise in them, but there was also... a hint of something that resembled love, if only for just a second. They stood still, far apart from each other, taking a moment to process what was happening, that was when she saw it; the big laceration on the Hound's side, that was why he was grunting, why he was sitting at such a strange angle, he was cleaning a wound that seemed deep enough to need stitching.

"You're hurt"

Sansa moved quickly, her long legs covered the distance between them in no time, the fire flickered and illuminated the wound, without thinking she placed a hand on his stomach and kneeled down, only then did she realize that his chest was bare and a deep blush reached her cheeks. The Hound looked down at her, her hand felt soft and warm against his skin, she had grown in the last six years, 'She looks like a woman now but she still blushes like a little bird I left behind in Kings Landing' he thought, there were very few things Sandor Clegane regretted but leaving the little bird behind was one of them.

"Sit, I'll take care of this" – Sansa's voice was soft, unlike his own.

"I can do it myself" – Sandor growled at her.

"I know. Now sit."

He obliged and sat down, the fire was dying, he was about to feed more wood to the fire when a hand landed softly on his arm urging him to stay still. Sandor watched her as she fed the fire, he watched her remove her big cloak and reveal an elegant dark dress. Sansa leaned forward to inspect his wound and his eyes wandered to her chest, he only found the outline of her breasts. She had developed since he last saw her, he couldn't help but notice the curve of her waist, the way the dress hugged tightly to her body. He shook his head, he wasn't a religious man but there was something inadequate about him thinking, admiring really, her body in the Godswood. He had missed her, he supposed, it was only natural for him to let his eyes wander. Sansa could feel the Hound's eyes on her, ignoring the feeling, she dipped a cloth in what felt like freezing water and pressed it against the wound, cleaning off old blood, she heard a slight grunt and looked up.

"Sorry" – Sansa apologized but continued cleaning the wound, using him to balance herself – "Do you have any ointments? I could run to…"

"In the pouch" – Sandor said, gnawing, there was a reason he had walked away to do this, he didn't want anyone hearing him complain and didn't need anyone's pity, how Sansa Stark had found him was beyond him but he couldn't say he completely hated that she had. She was gentle, much more than he would have been on himself, but that also meant that she was taking longer to do the job, that he had to endure the pain longer.

"This is quite deep; mayhap I should call a maester."

"No" – he said, his voice on the verge of frightening, she had heard that voice many times before but still a chill ran down her spine.

"No need for you to bark, ser, I'm just trying to help."

Sansa snickered and then shut up, her hand froze where it was on Sandor's side, did she just said 'bark' to a man who was called 'the hound'? How stupid can you be, she thought as she continued applying the ointment, trying to act like nothing had happened. Sandor didn't move, she was almost done when suddenly he started shaking, his stomach clenched and she could see the hard muscles under his tight skin, Sansa looked up and then the world stood still. The Hound was looking down at her, he had drawn a breath and then, as he let it out, his laughter roared across the Godswood. He laughed hard and deeply, gasping for air and clutching his side.

"Really, Little Bird? Did you just tell a dog not to bark?"

Sansa blushed once more, her cheeks were burning, she moved so quickly that she was now a good five steps away from him… she thought he would get mad at her, call her a stupid little girl, take offense in her comment. But he was laughing, laughing whole heartedly, and that softened his features, made him look less intimidating… he even slightly approachable. Sansa stood and reached for her cloak, her job was done, she knew she should get going.

"I didn't mean…" – her voice was thin, drowned in his laughter, but somehow he heard her.

"Of course you meant no offense." – Sandor said and took a deep breath, ceasing the laughter – "You'd never mean offense, you with your perfect manners and shy nature, blushing so often…" – he was standing closer now, towering over her – "Tell me, do I still frighten you, Little Bird?"

"You stopped frightening me a long time ago" – Sansa felt uneasy but hoped that her voice remained whole. There was less than a step between them, his eyes had darkened, no trace of laughter left.

"You shouldn't be wandering around the forest in the dark, you could get hurt."

"I've already been hurt" – she said, her voice broke a little.

"I'll kill him" – The Hound's voice was soft, the words came easy for him as if he were talking about any other mundane task: tending to a horse, asking for wine, killing a man, it was all the same to him.

"I already did" – she confessed.

His eyes found hers. She knew he didn't believe her, but she had killed Ramsay. _She_ had asked Jon to let him live just enough for him to be conscious of what was coming for him, _she_ had him placed at the kennels, _she_ released the hounds, she heard his screams fade in the background as she walked away. Some nights she still dreamed of that night, she had nightmares because he had been right, a part of him would always be in her but she could try to control that part, she would control that part. Sansa felt the Hound's hand on her waist, she saw his eyes and saw the realization sink in them, and then ever so softly, he placed his other hand on her cheek.

"I…" – he was fighting to find the right words, he had the look of a man who needed to say something but she wasn't sure she wanted to hear what he had to say, not that night at least, not after her little confession.

"You must be cold." – Sansa cut him off – "Here."

Sansa offered him the discarded shirt he had set aside, he put it on slowly, trying not to pull on the fade scar that had already started to form, the shirt was warm from being set by the fire and only then he realized that snow was falling gently. It fell on Sansa's red hair and he remembered the wilding's claim that redheaded folks were kissed by fire; she was, she really was, because whenever he was close to her he felt warm, his heart started beating again. Sansa saw defeat in the Hound's eyes and her heart went out for him, slowly she extended her hand towards his face, she touched his burnt skin, her fingers tracing the uneven surface, did he just closed his eyes and leaned into her hand? No, we wouldn't do that she must have imagined it.

"I owe you many thanks, ser Sandor"

"I am no ser" – he answered, he wondered if he should try to close the space between them but then remained where he was, she was kissed fire after all and he didn't deal well with fire.

"You will always be a knight to me."

And then, ever so softly, Sansa stepped closer to him, one hand still on his face and her other hand rested on his shoulder, she got on her toes and planted a soft kiss on his cheek. It lasted a second longer than it should, but what a marvelous second it had been, as she lowered herself she ran her hand tenderly against his beard and he did nothing but stand right there like an idiot.

"Thank you" – she said – "For everything."

And then she was gone. She walked out of the Godswood and he stood there, by the fire, watching her walk away from him. Sandor debated whether or not he should go after her but in the end, he simply sat back down and collected his things, he stared at the fire for a while, thinking of how things had gone for him since he heard they'd be stopping at Winterfell. His first thought had been of her, he had heard Jon Snow say that his sister was acting as Lady of Winterfell during his absence and somehow he knew that Sansa was alive. He had heard about Arya from Brienne and he had tried hard not to smile, the Stark sisters did hold a special place in his somewhat ruined heart, only for different reasons. When he met Arya Stark, he had been annoyed by her but as they rode together day in and day out and the girl wouldn't shut the fuck up he started to like her… he reminded him of his own sister, not by the looks, Cleganes weren't blessed with good looks, but because of her witty remarks, sarcasm and desire to fight. He would have taken care of Arya for the rest of his life if it had been up to him, take her to the Wall pretending that he was interested in a ransom, but he wasn't, he just didn't want to see a girl that reminded him of his dead sister, well, dead. But Sansa Stark did not remind him of his sister, he wasn't Jaime fucking Lannister for fuck's sake, in truth, Sansa Stark didn't remind him of anyone he had previously met; no childhood love, no tavern wench who warmed his bed, no previous love interest, but she did look exactly the way he thought a woman should look, even at fourteen, now he thought she looked like a dream.

"Fuck" – Sandor mustered under his breath as he got up and walked back to the castle.

The moment he heard Sansa was alive he knew that he would face anything and everything for her. He would gladly kill any lad who tried to overstep their ground with the Lady of Winterfell, he would gladly kill anyone who even looked at her the wrong way, the had wanted to kill Joffrey so many times but he had held back, the little cunt would have punished him by treating her worst and he didn't need that on his conscience. But from being willing to kill a man to thinking that she looked like a dream, Sandor knew that he was screwed. He liked killing, he really did enjoy it, he enjoyed the fear that overtook a man's eyes before he shit himself and died but he had never enjoyed love. He didn't remember his mother loving him, he didn't remember anyone really loving him for that matter, and he thought he had never loved anyone else other than his sister and that had been so long ago that maybe he had forgotten how to love. Sandor walked the castle grounds, the night was at its darkest hour, the torches barely lit the way back to the main hall, the guards looked at him cautiously as he made his way back to his chambers. It had been Arya who had accommodated him in the castle instead of a tent outside with the rest of the few men that were crazy enough to march with them. She had found him outside the castle, tending to his horse to avoid having to talk to anyone. In truth, he hadn't heard her approach, but when she smugly said that she had startled him, he said that she had been so loud that King's Landing had probably heard her coming. She looked healthy, her hair was longer, she had put on some weight but she was still lean, she hadn't grown an inch though and that pleased him.

"I hear you're very good at the whole killing thing" – Sandor told her as he continued tending his horse, trying to act unaffected by their little reunion.

"And I hear you almost got my brother killed"

There was a moment of silence and then Arya smiled the biggest smile he had ever seen on her, thank the seven that she didn't go in for a hug; that would have been awkward. Instead, they got into an easy conversation, she asked what he had been up to after nearly dying, asked how he had survived, asked about what happened beyond the Wall and he gave her all the answers she wanted. In return, she told him what she had done after he left him to die, she kept all her training very vague but he honestly didn't care, he actually was about to cut her off when she fell silent, a little worried, he had looked up and seen her smile softly, he followed her eyes and found her looking at that Gendry boy.

"Sorry for leaving there to die." – Arya said looking straight into his eyes, fucking Starks with their fucking honor.

"No harm there, I didn't die." – he replied, she was still half distracted by Gendry – "I am still on your list?"

"No, you already died once" – she said with a smile – "I have to go"

Sandor remembered how he had seen Arya going in the same direction that Gendry had disappeared to, and for the rest of the day he didn't see either of them, he decided that on the morrow he would have a pleasant talk to Waters on their march to the Wall. He entered his chambers and went straight to the bed, not minding his dirty clothes and not wanting to wash away Sansa's touch, sleep found him easily but how could it not when he had a soft bed and a warm fire during those cold winter nights. He woke up feeling well rested, broke his fast with the other men outside the castle and started getting ready for their march, he accepted and even thanked the wench who gave him some bread and cheese for the road, he was on his way to the armory when he saw Sansa in the distance. She was talking to Jon Snow, probably going over last minute details and the likes of it; she must have felt his eyes on her because she looked up and wrapped up the conversation, she walked towards him, her face showed no emotion.

"Did you sleep well?" – he noticed how she didn't add the 'ser' after her question.

"Quite pleasantly" – Sandor replied awkwardly, he was looking for some kind of emotion in her face, in her eyes, but she was giving nothing away, would she act like the night before didn't happen?

"Please wait here a minute, I have something for you"

Sansa disappeared into the castle and he, for once, simply stood where he had been asked to stand but she was taking her time and he was growing restless in the cold wind. Freezing, he went to the little bridge in which he had seen Sansa and Jon talking, it provided enough shelter from the elements but still gave him a clear view of the camp and made him easy to spot. As he waited, he tried to convince himself that he didn't care if she found him or not.

"Sorry I took so long" – Sansa said as she came to him – "This is for you… it's nothing really, just more cloth, some ointments and something the master says will burn but keep the wound from getting infected… to make sure that you tend your wound" – her fingers touched his as she handed him a tightly wrapped packet. He could have sworn that there was the ghost of a smile on her face – "Be safe out there, we have a conversation to finish upon your return."

They locked eyes once more, hers asked him to come back after the war, his promised that he would do everything in his power to stay alive. After the unsaid promise, she went back to being a blank canvas, she bid him farewell and went back to being Lady Stark. But his Little Bird had been there for a second that it would be his Little Bird waiting for him to return.

"You love her" – Arya's voice startled him, she was very good at sneaking up on people.

"Aye" – There was no point in lying to her, if half of what he had heard was true then she would surely be able to call out his bluff.

"Because she's pretty?" – she asked, not a hint of jealousy in her voice, but why would she be jealous anyway, especially after the way she had been looking at the Waters boy.

"No, but that doesn't hurt" – Sandor said and walked away, he needed to ready his horse, they had the army of the dead to face and he had a Little Bird to come back to.


	2. I'm Back, Little Bird

**A/N:** Hello everyone, some people asked in the comments and in AO3 (same user name, more fics), for a second part... After a lot of work and doubt, I've decided to post a second and final chapter. Please let me know what you think about it, if it's good or came short. Thank you for reading.

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They were idiots, each and every single one of them. They had marched as hard and as fast as they could to a war they would most likely not survive, jumped head first into danger. A bunch of men who didn't speak the same language or shared the same customs or served the same king, but they were all on the side of the living, and that was all that mattered. For the turn of four moons, they had fought and bled and died, some to come back to a so-called life only to be killed again. For four turns of the moon the army of the dead had ambushed them at night, weakened their forces, caught them in tricks, but they had fought back, they had remained strong, fighting each battle as it was the last until a sennight ago when it really was.

Sandor Clegane hated fire, even after seeing the message of the fucking Red God in the flames he had done all he could to avoid it. It must have been written in the starts that his life was meant to be as miserable as possible because every day he had found himself battling surrounded by fire. And yet, on the last draw of war, on the last battle they had fought, he had fucking walked through fire to help end the war. The King in the North had promised to reward him for his heroic acts, what Jon Snow actually meant was that Sandor was to be rewarded for keeping him alive; Snow had announced it while praising Sandor's commitment as paramount and something to be admired. In truth, Sandor hadn't done it for the kingdom; he hadn't done it for the realm or the living, he has done it for her, because she had already lost too much and he would rather die than have her lose another sibling. So yes, they were idiots, the lot of them, marching hurriedly to battle but taking their sweet sweet time going back home.

 _It's not home to you,_ he thought _, you have no home._

He had thought of her every single day since they departed from Winterfell, just as he thought of her every day since he left her in King's Landing the night the sky turned green, and the waters were aflame. Yet, his thoughts had changed. For once, whenever he thought of her, he no longer saw a girl, he saw a woman; a beautiful woman, poised and strong. When he thought of her, he saw the Lady of Winterfell, with her pale skin and cold blue eyes, a mask of strength and courtesy always in place. But when he dreamed of her, he saw Sansa Stark; saw a Little Bird who had grown into her wings, and although she had talons, her feathers were the prettiest and her smile brought warmth to the piece of ice he had for a heart. She had promised a conversation for when he got back, if he got back. Had that been the girl's way to make him promise to stay alive? Would she really be watching out for him? He didn't know, and a part of him didn't want to find out either. He wondered if the girl thought of him as the Hound, he never did have the change to tell her that the Hound was dead; Arya had figured it out on her own, but those two were as different as night and day.

 _The girl is smarter than you give her credit for_ , his heart argued against his mind. _That she is, and that alone is why she will keep you away._

"Did it make any difference?" – Arya Stark's voice broke his inner debate. The little wolf had taken to making camp with him on some nights ever since they left Winterfell, she had found him on the way to battle, on some nights after fighting and now, on their way back. Whether it was because she was afraid or because not many men dared to camp near the fearsome Hound, he did not know. _Maybe she just needs a friend,_ his mind said _; you sure as hell need one too._

"The ribbon" – Arya explained as she pointed to his right wrist – "Did it make a difference? Wearing a stupid favor?"

Sandor looked at the thin piece of cloth he had tightly wrapped and tied around his wrist. He had found it on their first night on the road, underneath the fresh cloth and different medicines. It was the same ribbon she had used that night in the Godswood, a deep blue, Tully blue. It was silk, soft and fresh, the smell of her hair still lingered in it when he tied it on that very night. Now it was soiled with dirt and dried blood, her sweet scent had been replaced by the smell of his sweat, but it had been hers, she had sent it to him as a reminder that she'd wait for him. At least that was what he got from it, and every time he took a swing of his sword and saw a flash of blue, it reminded him who he was fighting for. It reminded him that each wight he killed was one less wight that could harm her, that each day they fought was another day she was kept relatively safe.

"You tell me" – Sandor replied – "Did it that dagger engraved with a bull made a difference?"

Arya grew quiet for a minute, her hand slowly going to her hip where said dagger rested on her belt. He noticed she had decided to ignore his question, she merely extended her bedroll beside his and started taking off her boots. Sandor had to give it to her, the little wolf could be sleeping under a bigger tent, her body resting on a pallet instead of a bedroll, lamps lit and thick furs worthy of the princess she was, but she had decided to remain with him. For reasons he didn't fully understand, after a few nights under the watchful eye of her older brother, King Snow had let her go with it.

"Clegane" – Arya called into the dark, her small body shamelessly budding closer to his probably in an effort to stay warm. It reminded him of their time in the woods after she had fled King's Landing, only that then she had done it reluctantly and now she did voluntarily. – "Thank you for saving his ass."

Her words were sincere, a whisper meant only for him, and he took it. The little girl had a special place in his heart, and he'd be damned if he failed either of the Stark sisters again. – "Go to sleep little wolf, winter is here; you need your strength."

At the sound of her house's words from his mouth, Arya nodded and turned around. It was true, winter had already come upon them, but the good thing about winter coming was that it would eventually lead the way for spring.

On their way north, they had managed to cover the distance between Winterfell and East-Watch-by-the-Sea in six weeks when the travels usually took seven or eight, especially with a body of men as numerous as theirs. Now they were entering their sixth week on the road and Winterfell was still ten moons away.

It felt somewhat good to wake up and not have a dagger at your throat, to wake up to silence instead of the sounds of screams and cries for either mercy or help. The days felt warmer too, on their way to battle, the already cold weather had turned to freezing as they approached their enemy, now that the Night King was dead, it seemed that the worst of winter was gone too. Sandor turned around and saw the small waddle of a girl sleeping on her side next to him, asleep she didn't look as deadly, didn't seem as old either. Back when they traveled together she had looked like a ten-year-old boy, now she looked like a twelve-year-old girl.

"Stop staring you creep" – she growled, and Sandor couldn't help but laugh, that one would never, ever, be a lady.

Twelve days later, as the sun was about to set, the outline of Winterfell got visible in the distance. His heart started beating faster, harder, just like it did every time he rode into battle, every time he looked at her. The sight of the castle seemed to renew the strength in the weak men who remained, and if it didn't then the cry of the dragon above their heads woke the hell up of them because the march took a faster pace, whispers turned into full conversations, and some men even broke into song. He didn't join the song, the Hound never sang and Sandor Clegane sure as hell didn't either, but the sound of music didn't bother him as much as it would have under any other circumstances and before long he felt his heart calming down. Beside him, Sandor could see Arya and Gendry riding slightly closer than necessary, he had talked to the boy already, threatened to kill him in his sleep if he did something stupid. He had also spoken to Arya, completely overstepped his boundaries, but when she had not so kindly reminded him that he was not her father or her brother, Sandor had merely asked if she would like her kingly brother to be the one to warn her about boys.

Jon Snow was a good man, a stupidly honorable man just like Ned Stark was, but he lacked the ability to read between the lines, to think poorly of people, to realize not everybody was noble as he was. The King in the North had fought beside all the men, Westerosi, Dothraki, Unsullied; he had fought and bled with all of them on the field, he was a good sword, a skillful fighter, but dense as a tree when it came to the most obvious matters. Snow had missed or decided not to see that his little sister had taken a liking to wandering around camp with the bastard of Robert Baratheon, and while he had made sure that there was nothing too improper going on, gossip had started going on around the camp. It had taken the very public beating of two buggering so-called knights to make sure that everyone kept their mouth shut and even then, Jon Snow had said nothing.

"Clegane, ride with me" – the King in the North ordered as he rode beside Sandor before pressing his heels to the horse.

Once they were further ahead, away from prying eyes and ears and only within a reasonable distance from Davos Seaworth, Jorah Mormont and the Imp, did Jon Snow finally dropped his kingly mask and turned to look at Sandor like another man.

 _Fucking Starks with their fucking masks,_ Sandor cursed. He hated lies, and masks were lies all the same, only silent.

"What is it, King Snow?" – Sandor asked, sarcasm all but dripping from his voice.

"Why do you care so much about my sisters?" – Jon Snow asked plainly – "I know you didn't save me out of love for a king you have no intention to pledge yourself."

 _So the little fuck isn't as daft as he looks, good for him, he'll need it if he means to keep his head and kingdom_ , Sandor thought before letting a sight out. Winterfell was so close, he could make out the great doors and the guards on the battlements, she was so close.

"They are good people" – Sandor replied, praying to the gods he didn't believe in not to be pressed for further information – "Kind. I guess you are too, a good person."

Snow looked at him, the corner of his lips twisting upwards, an odd smile forming on his face – "You just called Arya, the girl who left you on the road to die, kind?" – he asked in disbelief and the phrasing of his question made Sandor fight off a small smile – "You're a good man too, Hound, I know you were kind to my sister Sansa in King's Landing, I know you took care of Arya the best you could, still do from the way I saw ser Adam's face not too long ago."

"The Hound is dead, Snow" – Sandor said, unsure of why he felt the need to clarify that to the young king – "And I don't need your empty words, I'm not a good man."

"Whatever allows you to sleep at night, Clegane."

It was late when they finally crossed the doors of Winterfell, the sky was clear, and the stars shone bright, the hour of the wolf they called it, and the wolves were back home. He saw her almost instantly, his eyes searching for her from the moment he crossed the doors. He saw her looking at her sister first, then searching for her brother and later, at last, her eyes found him. She looked tired, dark bags under her eyes, pale skin and so thin, she was still beautiful though, a sight for sore eyes. She didn't make her way to him, it wouldn't be proper, he was too far beneath her station, and he didn't make his way to her either though he didn't really know why. The world had brightened at the sight of her only to be consumed by darkness when he saw the Imp walking her way.

Sandor didn't know if the Imp and Sansa had met before the march, he didn't know where those two stood and the last thing he was certain of was that they were married. Rumors had been heard that she had never been his wife in truth, only by law, but what did it matter anyway, when the bastard of Bolton had abused and defiled her. The reunion that unfolded before him made his heart stop, it was tender, almost a meeting among friends. Shaking his head and feeling stupid, Sandor made his way to the stables; he needed to tend to good old Stranger, feed him, brush him, let him rest before they got back on the road.

"Are you planning on sleeping in the stables?"

"Brienne of fucking Tarth" – Sandor growled at the sight of the blonde woman. How many nights had he been forced to listen to Tormund Giantsbane moon over the Maid of Tarth? It had been pathetic, and Sandor had told him so, but still, the way the wilding talked about Brienne of Tarth, as if she were the most beautiful creature in the entire world, had been somewhat funny.

"Will you ever stop saying my name as such?" – Brienne asked, her voice softer than before.

They were friends now, or as close to friends as they would be. Their friendship had formed thanks to their love for the Stark girls, the way they were both proud of Arya and cared for her without meddling in her business. What had happened that day on the road, so many moons ago, was in the past; Brienne had killed the Hound, and for that, he was grateful, even if he'd never admit to it.

"Would you rather I called you _wench_?" – Sandor asked; he didn't even try to hide his mocking smirk.

"Shut up. Come on Clegane; your ugly face will freeze like that if you sleep here tonight."

Without a word, Sandor followed Brienne across the courtyard, past the Great Hall, and into the Great Keep. He hadn't been in that part of the castle since he first visited Winterfell with the entourage of Robert Baratheon, he had never stepped in those quarters as his own man. His eyes lingered briefly in each passing door, his heart skipping a beat at the thought of maybe running into her in the halls of her own home. Finally, Brienne pushed a door that led to her chamber, a big bed on the corner and a large pallet on the floor, the heath was lit, and the warm room made his skin feel like a thousand needles were pricking it.

"Who would have known, the Maid of Tarth luring an old dog into her bedchambers, the impropriety of this must be unprecedented."

He was teasing her, and she knew it, his features had softened, and she rolled her eyes at him. There were two basins with water and two cloths besides them, silently, Sandor started undoing the many clasps of his armor. Brienne caught sight of him and said she would be back later with some food, allowing him enough privacy to clean himself up. Privacy he didn't need, he was sure the Maid of Tarth had seen her fair share of naked men, he included, and once or twice he had even seen her in the nude. Even after such a long dry spell, first imposed by the Silent Brothers and then by himself, the sight of Brienne naked hadn't stirred anything in him. For a few nights he wondered if there was something wrong with him, if he was becoming too old for certain earthly activities, but then one night he dreamt of copper hair and blue eyes and soft laughter and when he woke up, the evidence that he wasn't too old yet was plain to see.

He slept better than he had in a long time, the pallet felt better than a featherbed, soft enough to be an improvement from the cold hard ground but not too soft to be missed once he left. Brienne had indeed been back with food; they had eaten in silence before bidding each other a good night. He had fallen asleep easily only to be woken up by the sounds of Brienne sneaking out of the room, he remained still on the floor, letting her think that he hadn't noticed a thing, that he didn't know she was most likely going to meet a certain blond Lannister. He let her, because that is what friends do, and because he could always use that information as leverage if need be.

The sounds of the castle coming back to life forced him out of the chambers, he was hungry, he could bathe and he was tired of listening to Brienne's snores. Calmly, he made his way to the Great Hall, a few men nodded at him as a greeting as he passed and he couldn't help but awe at how things had changed since his last stay in Winterfell.

 _It's the war, bonds made in battle are hard to break_ , he thought as he took a seat next to Tormund, the ginger wilding was smiling as always, if only he knew that his precious Brienne had spent half the night in another man chambers.

Against his better judgment, his eyes turned to look at the high table; she wasn't there, neither was Arya or any Stark, they must have been breaking their fast in private, as a family, just like they should. The thought of it made him feel warm, but then the Dragon Queen entered the hall, screeches of wood rasping against stone filled the room as most men stood to greet her, he didn't stand, he couldn't care less for her. Daenerys Stormborn, the girl carried herself as a queen, that much he had to give her, but he didn't like Targaryens, he distrusted anyone who chose to play with fire.

After breaking his fast, Sandor gathered his few belongings and went to the bathhouse, the warm water soothed his tired muscles and helped him get rid of the dirt that had all but become a second skin. Once more he marveled at how Winterfell's design, the water was pleasantly warm, especially after being in the cold for so long. Wearing the cleanest tunic and breeches he owned, Sandor followed some wenches to a stream where he washed his own clothing, it wasn't much and it wasn't well kept but it was his, and he didn't want to give anyone the chance to ruin his clothing further. Setting his clothes to dry by the kitchen oven, Sandor went back to the stables, determined to brush Stranger a little more and feed him. He was surprised when he saw a squire starting to tend to his horse, orders of the Lady of Winterfell; he explained when Sandor asked what the boy was doing; trying to frighten the lad, Sandor warned him about Stranger biting off fingers. But his warhorse was not the destrier it used to be in its youth and time had softened it, the black mount nudged the boy with its nose and claimed the apple it was being offered, so much for the fearsome horse Stranger had been in the past.

It seemed like a jape from the gods that he would bump into her at the Godswood, a cruel jape because he had walked so silently that she didn't notice his presence, or if she did then she didn't care, because she continued brushing her hair, staring at her reflection on the little pool at the feet of the crying weirwood tree. The sun was setting; the sky was a pretty shade of orange which mad her hair shine, Sandor wanted to laugh, the sky hadn't been orange in forever; usually, it just went from grey to black, and that was it. He felt that he was intruding a private moment, his mind was telling him, screaming at him really, to turn around and walk away, but he was glued to the spot, the opportunity to openly look at her so closely was something foreign to him.

"Come sit with me, Sandor."

Her voice was soft and he knew her mask was off. His name on her lips made his heart skip, had she ever called him by name? There was a time back in King's Landing when he wondered if she knew his name at all; if she knew there was a time in which he wasn't called Dog or Hound. Obediently, he walked forward and sat beside her on the fallen tree; he was glad that he had showered, that he had decided to wear clean clothes, because she smelled like lemons and her skin was white and clean, her hair shiny and looking so soft.

 _You're a dog, and she's a lady_ , his brain screamed, _you imagined a promise, she only offered a conversation._

"I saw you walk through the doors last night, and yet, when Arya told me the Hound was dead, my heart sunk" – her voice was honest, the emotion in it raw, a knot caught in his throat – "Then she told me Sandor Clegane was alive, my sister has a cruel concept of what a is jape."

"That she does" – Sandor agreed, feeling like an idiot for not finding anything else to say.

"We had a pending conversation, remember?" – she asked – "What were you going to tell me that night?"

If Sandor thought that she was going to make things easy for him, he was mistaken. Apparently, the girl had only kept him alive to hear what she had been too afraid to hear that other night. He had never dared to imagine a reunion, he had dreamed of her and called her face and body to memory, but never imagined what he'd say if they saw each other again. Breathing in, Sandor filled his lungs with the cold northern air, he needed to be brave, he needed to take this chance or he'd regret it for the rest of his miserable life.

 _You could go back to the Quiet Isle_ , he thought, _no need to go as far as Essos._

Shyly, almost fearful, Sandor slowly extended his right hand and reached out for her. He gave the girl every opportunity to move away, to pull her hand out of his reach, but she didn't, and once he felt her soft and warm skin, he didn't want to let go. His eyes traveled to the sight of her small hand on his; he looked at her face, her eyes had followed too, only that they had lingered longer.

"I'm sorry" – he said, taking a deep breath, he decided to do it all in one go, no need to make things more painful or awkward than they needed to be – "I'm sorry for the night of the Blackwater, for the dagger and the words. I'm sorry I didn't do anything but stand behind a shit brat of a king while they beat you. I'm sorry I didn't kill him and Boros and Trant and all those bastards who laid a hand on you. I'm sorry for all the pain I caused you and all the pain you had to endure because of my cowardice."

He gave her a minute, but she didn't reply, he didn't expect her to, not really, what could she possibly say? Slowly, he started pulling his hand away from her. He hadn't meant to leave so soon but he wasn't sure he could stay much longer around her, he couldn't bear the idea of being close to her and see the disappointment in her eyes that was sure to be there any minute now. Yet, just as he was about to break away from her, a small but firm hand set upon his own, her fingers went timidly to the blue ribbon tied around his wrist, and Sandor understood what Sansa had been looking at a few minutes ago.

"Where are you going?" – she asked, her voice barely a whisper as if she was afraid of hearing his answer.

"Essos, maybe" – he replied.

Sansa's face shot up, her eyes wide and angry as her hand pressed down on his. Sandor didn't understand, and for a minute he feared that she had meant to punish him for his crimes. If she wanted his head now that the war was over and his sword was no longer necessary, he would give it to her.

"You will remain in Winterfell" – she ordered – "I let you walk away from me once and it was a mistake, you're not leaving again. Not unless you truly want to." – her voice was firm but soft, and he wondered why he would ever want to leave her side.

"I failed you" – he reminded her, angry that she had paid no attention to his apology.

"You didn't; you did what you had to do and helped me as a much as you could" – she said as she looked straight into his eyes leaving no room for him to question if she had forgiven him or not. Her intense gaze was broken then by the feeling of soft fingers against his wrist – "You're wearing it."

"I will wear it until the day I die, Little Bird."

"You love me" – she said after a few minutes, it wasn't a question but a statement, and he didn't have the heart to deny it, he was no liar – "I won't say I love you because I'm not sure if I do. But I care about you, deeply."

Her words might have hurt any other man, a man with more pride, a man who wasn't half as in love as he was. But to him those words were enough, he would face the dead again if only to hear her say she cared about him. He was a pathetic old dog, and he didn't care because Sansa Stark cared about him when he didn't deserve it, and she wanted him to stay in Winterfell. Drawing his sword out, Sandor struggled a little but got on one knee, his sword on his hands, he was about to talk when she placed a hand on his cheek, his scarred cheek, and silenced him.

"Don't" – she pleaded – "There might come a day in which I want to hear a vow from you but it won't be one in which you pledge your sword to me."

He stood up then, expertly sheathed his sword with one hand while helping Sansa up with the other. Standing before her, so close that he could smell her sweet scent and see the freckles over the bridge of her nose despite the darkening night, Sandor didn't know how to feel. Her hand had fallen from his face when she stood up, and though he missed its warmth, he felt better when he felt her arms going around his waist. Timidly, Sansa stepped into the embrace she had created, and Sandor wrapped his arms around her.

"What would your kingly brother say" – Sandor joked, his voice light and full of contempt at the feel of her soft body pressed against his – "The Lady of Winterfell hugging an old dog."

"My kingly brother wouldn't say a thing about his sister Sansa hugging a dear friend" – the girl replied against his chest – "The Hound is dead, but the man remains."

"The Hound is dead, Little Bird" – he agreed.

"The Hound never hurt me, and neither will you."

"No, Little Bird, I won't hurt you" – Sandor said.

He was issuing the same words he had so many years ago, reassuring her as much as he was reassuring himself. He wouldn't hurt her, no one would hurt her again, or he'd kill them. That last promise he kept to himself, not wanting to scare the girl away with bad memories, savoring every second he had her in his arms.


End file.
